The morning light filtered through the manor like breath through silk—thin, pale, slow. I saw it only in suggestion. In the way mana curled soft and warm through the outlines of the sconces, the shifting glow of Evelyn's presence as she moved between the kitchen and the table.
I entered the dining hall by memory and sound—my boots quiet over stone, the weight of Salem's outline hovering behind me like a quiet command I'd never given.
We stepped into the room together.
Conversation stopped.
Ramon was gone. My mother sat near the head of the table, her outline calm and strong, all steady curves and thoughtful edges. Evelyn flickered nearby, her movements lighter—mana rising in soft, curious arcs. Marcus was already seated, legs crossed, mana like sharpened ore—solid and suspicious.
I pulled out a chair and sat. A familiar ache spread through my ribs. I gestured for Salem.
"Sit."
She did. Her shape folded into the chair, spine straight, still as the shadow she once was. Her presence didn't fill the room so much as carve it.
Evelyn placed a plate in front of each of us—fruit, dark bread, something warm and soft I didn't recognize by scent alone.
Salem stared at hers.
"You… eat?" Marcus asked, his voice tight.
Salem didn't blink. Her voice was clear. Unapologetic.
"Demons don't eat this. We prefer things still alive. Beating. The mana's richer that way. Fear makes it sweeter."
The room didn't move.
No one breathed for a moment.
She tilted her head, as if studying the bread. "This is dead. Cold. It tastes like dirt and ash in comparison."
Her tone wasn't cruel.
It was honest.
I could feel Evelyn stiffen—her mana fluttered with quiet horror.
My mother spoke next, calm but firm. "Well. Here, we eat dirt and ash with good manners. Start there."
I heard Salem shift. A pause. Then she picked up a piece of bread—fingers slow, deliberate. She bit it.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
"It's dry," she said.
"But?"
She blinked. I could feel the confusion in her aura. "It's not… bad."
I spoke quietly. "You'll adjust."
"I've never had to." Her voice dropped lower. "I was made for hunger, not for patience."
I turned toward her slightly, the blur of her outline tall and coiled beside me. "That's changing."
She said nothing.
But she kept eating.
⸻
After the meal, Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the table. "The Metal Scroll Tournament's been announced."
I nodded once. "I knew it was coming. The King invited me months ago."
"You're sure you're ready?" he asked.
"I was ready the moment i found that exact scroll."
"It's an open tournament," Marcus continued, voice smooth. "Not just nobles. Anyone with Earth affinity can enter. The scroll doesn't react to anything else. But only the ones with the best chance will be accepted to fight."
I smiled slightly. "I know."
"And you'll bring her?"
He didn't need to look at Salem. The word hung sharp in the air like a nail.
"Why would i fight without her?"
Salem didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her mana curled slightly—like smoke pulling inward. Watching.
My mother stood. Her outline was a calm fortress. "She'll need clothes that won't scare the elves."
Salem's voice was flat. "I don't wear dresses."
"No one asked you to," my mother said.
She gestured. Salem followed.
⸻
When they returned, Salem's presence had shifted.
The movement of her body sounded tighter—fabric with weight, deliberate shape. Her mana felt closer to her skin, like it moved with her instead of dragging behind her like a shadow.
"You're back," I said.
"I am."
"You sound… ready."
"I am."
I couldn't see what she wore.
But I could hear how she moved.
And that told me enough.
⸻
The road to Elaran was long, but not unfamiliar.
I'd passed it once—before everything changed. Now I passed it again, with Salem at my side instead.
We traveled in a closed carriage. I traced the walls with my fingers when the silence grew too wide. Outside, I felt the stretch of open fields narrowing to old roads and deeper trees. The mana changed the closer we got—more wild, more ancient.
The elves met us at the border.
I couldn't see them in full detail—just tall outlines, long arcs of mana laced with something sharp and old. They weren't kind. They weren't cruel either.
Until they saw her.
Salem stepped from the carriage, and the air snapped tight.
One of the elves—their mana like smooth stone cut clean—spoke low. "That thing shouldn't be here."
"I'm bound," Salem said, her voice even. "I act only when commanded."
Another elf stepped forward. "She's a demon."
"She's mine," I said before they could say more. "By seal. She walks with House Saint Clair."
"You bring her to Elaran?" the first elf asked, disgust buried just beneath the syllables. "To a sacred gathering? You'll defile it."
I felt the weight of the gem at my hip. "She's not a weapon pointed at you. Unless you give me reason."
They hesitated.
Mana tensioned between us like drawn string. Then—
The first one stepped aside. "Then don't give us reason."
We passed.
Not welcomed.
But not turned away.
⸻
The trees changed beyond the border—taller, their mana older. The light here was strange, all dappled curves and flickering shadows. I saw it like a dream through dark shapes and gleaming arcs—mana flitting through branches, banners waving like smoke.
The Festival was beginning.
I could feel it in the air—sharp with anticipation.
Vendors with fire-slick mana lined the roads. Laughter, music, pressure. Children darted by in flickers of color I couldn't place. Their outlines were soft. Clean. Unscarred.
And then there was us.
Me.
Annabel Valor, of House Saint Clair.
And the demon walking quietly behind me.
We were something else.
And every step forward only made that clearer.
Eyes followed.
Mana recoiled.
But none of them dared to stop us.
Because I was blind.
But I wasn't weak.
And she wasn't welcome.
But she was mine.
Let them stare.